


Happy Birthday

by Pixial



Series: Don't Talk To Me Or My Fusions (Fu-sons) Again [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: "science", Implied abuse, Science Experiments, cloning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:43:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixial/pseuds/Pixial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the science involved in underground armies gets on the grey-area of morality.</p>
<p>Sometimes, the science goes too far on the grey-area of morality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

“What the _hell_ , soldier?” The man known as Tord and “Red Leader” (and occasionally “the pointy headed prick” to his friends) somehow managed to convey both sheer aggravation and admiration as he spoke to the man before him and stared at the person sitting awkwardly, an arm held stiffly to his side, on a stool in what was essentially a plexiglass box. This should _not_ have been possible, nevermind that he’d seen it before, years ago. 

“It’s a clone,” the soldier-- scientist, Tord reminded himself; they get picky about those things-- proclaimed proudly. “Specifically, a joint-clone from three DNA donors. Yours, and your two nan- uh, guards.” Tord leveled a glare at the man, who had the grace to duck in embarrassment. He knew very well what the troops called his bodyguards and confidants, and judging from the faint snorts to his left and right, Paul and Patryck knew it, too. Of course they did. They knew things about this entire operation, even things kept secret from him.

Tord aimed his glare at them, but received only the barest of shrugs. “I am going to fire you,” he growled, glowering with his single eye. 

“You said that last time, sir.” Paul kept a steady gaze to the clone in the cell, impassive as always. Patryck didn't even pretend professionalism as he quirked his lips in a fleeting smirk before turning his own attention to the cell. Tord sighed and muttered something about nuisances and big heads and returned to the matter at hand.

“A clone. And what… ah, donors did you use?” A rhetorical question as the clone clearly had his eyes, Patryck’s mouth, and Paul’s damned eyebrows. Tord rubbed the bridge of his nose, almost sighing with weary resignation. He couldn't even bring himself to be angry at this point. Alright, he'd been cloned. Again. And they'd combined the experiment with two of his closest allies. All without permission. No problem. He'd figure out this waste of resources somehow. 

Wait.

Resources.

“Ah… How… did you do this, exactly?” he asked, trying to remember whether or not there had _been_ a genetics department in the first place. He didn't think so, but after the disaster with the robot and his own recovery, things had slipped through the cracks. 

Patryck spoke him before the scientist could answer. “We found and took control over a small-time operation while you were on leave, sir. Nothing major, though it seems they specialized in genetics. I believe you might be familiar with a Mr. Bing?”

_Bing_. Well fuck. That all made sense. Bing was the idiot “evil director” who’d somehow managed to clone Tord and his friends ages ago, all for a _movie_. At the time, it’d merely been annoying, and Tord had laughed at the inanity of both the plan and its perpetrator.

Now it'd apparently somehow resulted in _another_ clone of him-- this time melded with his best ~~friends~~ soldiers. He sighed again, resisting the urge to scratch under the eyepatch, and stepped closer to the cell. There was not enough coffee in the entire base to prepare him for this. The creature-- clone-- stepped off its stool and met his gaze on the other side of the glass.

It was… unnerving. Grey eyes regarded him with apprehension, tension etched into every line of the clone’s body. Tord felt a hairline fracture form in his heart. The clone was _young._ If he wagered a guess, he'd say around seventeen. Maybe eighteen if it'd taken after his unfortunate height. And for all of that, it wasn’t a bad-looking thing. It seemed to have combined the best qualities of the three of them.

“It really is a marvel. It's got your skills and talents pooled together,” said the scientist at his shoulder, echoing his thought. “It’s practically a super soldier. A perfect blend of the best of the best.” He sounded smug, satisfied with himself. As though Tord had ordered a super soldier or the appropriation of his DNA. 

The clone transferred its... His? It was so hard to think of the person before him as an object. Not when he aimed a scowl at their creator that imitated Patryck at most irritated. From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. Patryck turning that same scowl at the scientist. Right. He and Paul probably had _several_ thoughts on this affair. They were just waiting for an appropriate moment to announce them. Ooh that'd be fun.

But first… He needed to assess this _properly_. This whole clone thing had the hallmarks of a disaster, but maybe there was a way to salvage it… 

“An interview,” he found himself saying, tearing his gaze away from the clone. The scientist gaped at him, losing whatever gloating thread he'd been pontificating on. “I’ll need to interview the clone.” His mind was made up, and a quick glance at the two behind him proved them in agreement. Perhaps it went against protocol to involve them in something that was his duty to deal with, but… It was their DNA, and they were his closest confidants. It was only right they join him.

The scientist (he really ought to bother learning the man’s name) protested. Loudly. Something about the clone being unstable and dangerous to approach. Tord was adamant, and the man’s concerns were as ignored as Paul’s eyebrow tweezers. Before too long, Tord, Paul, and Patryck stood in the cell itself with their clone.

“Do you know who we are?” A simple question, but its answer would tell Tord how much information this clone had. 

The clone remained silent, staring at them, not _quite_ cringing away from them, but standing stiff at full attention, almost vibrating with tension and trying not to show it. Tord hadn’t been the leader of an army for this long without being able to recognize the signs of fear. The hairline fracture split a little wider, and Tord wondered if he was even _capable_ of speech. He opened his mouth to say something else, when his voice sounded from the clone’s mouth, raising the hair on his back of neck.

“Paul. Patryck. Tord. Heads of the Red Army.” The clone nodded at them in turn, keeping his arms tight by their sides as they spoke. His voice-- _Tord’s_ voice-- was quiet and clipped. Exactly as Tord himself would’ve spoken in an uncertain situation. Tord took a moment to assess the situation. The clone was young, and facing three uniformed men of obvious authority. Yeah… He’d be frightened, too. Change of tactics then.

He lowered his voice, altering his stance to something a little less intimidating, almost relaxed. He felt Paul and Patryck did the same, and silently blessed that they were on the same page. “Do you know who you are?” he asked, more gently this time. Though fear was useful in its way, this wasn’t an interrogation. There was no need to scare the kid. Yet.

The clone shook his head and closed his eyes, quiet again. Maybe he was just a slow thinker? He could take after Paul in that regard… Thinking before speaking wasn’t necessarily a terrible thing, after all. Tord found himself studying him again, this time without the glare of light reflected on glass in the way, and something caught his eye. The clone’s skin was a shade or two darker than Patryck’s, but there was a discoloration that didn’t fit on his left arm that was _almost_ hidden by the simple white t-shirt. What…

“We call ourselves Paultoryck,” the clone spoke again, Tord’s voice jolting him from his train of thought. He didn’t think he was going to get used to that. Wait… He said…

“We?” Paul spoke behind him, the corners of the large man’s mouth turning down as he pondered the word. _We?_ Did that mean…

The clone turned their attention to him, nodding hesitantly. “It’s all three of us. Paultoryck was the name we decided on.” Tord resisted the urge to swear. All _three!?_ Three minds were inside of that body!? How did that work? Did they have to decide on everything by committee or something?

“How…?” Confusion was clear in his voice, something he normally wouldn’t have allowed. The Red Leader was never confused. He understood all that went on in his organization, it was how he managed to stay in power. But this… 

“Tord speaks for us,” came Patryck’s voice. The three soldiers started at the switch. “He’s still our leader, but we…” They trailed off, shrugging for a moment before wincing. That brought Tord back to his original line of thought. Logistics could wait.

“Your arm. What happened?” He started forward, but a hand on his shoulder and the expression on the clone’s face halted him. Panic. Tord’s face hardened, but he stayed where he was.

Paultoryck looked down, reaching for their arm before dropping the hand. “...... Test.” Back to Tord’s voice.

“What kind of test?” Patryck’s voice was as cold as the blood currently running through Tord’s veins. This was a military facility, and while they’d never shied away from the unpleasant-but-necessary tasks that often went hand in hand with the art of war, this…

“They wanted to see if it’d heal faster than a normal human’s. Said the others seemed to, but since they didn’t make them…” Paultoryck sounded for all the world like a sullen teenager, the words being drug out of them against their will. Their eyes, however, showed fear, not rebellion. Tord had little trouble connecting the dots, and when he did, rage kindled deep inside him. 

He turned on his heels, slamming the door of the cell open with fire blazing in his eye. “Get the boy a doctor now!” he snapped at one of the guards. The man saluted with a shaking hand and tore through the lab and out the door. Paul and Patryck were close behind, following him out of the cell with anger radiating from them. Tord pointed at the scientist whose name he still didn’t know-- not that it was about to matter-- and Paul grabbed him by the arm in a crushing grip.

_“Explain,”_ Tord growled as Paul dragged him over. The scientist spewed a stream of gibberish, insisting that it was an important test, just a clone, perfectly valid experiment. The stream ground to a halt as Paul tightened his grip.

“This _experiment_ was unauthorized,” Tord kept his voice quiet, level. Anyone who didn’t know better would think him to be quite calm. Everyone else knew that blood would be spilled if this went much farther. He could practically feel Patryck ready to haul him back in case he snapped. “You cloned people, cloned _me_ without authorization, and now you’ve conducted human testing without authorization.” He turned to Paul. “Get him out of here, and get him in a cell. I’ll deal with him later.”

He looked around the lab. Work had frozen, everyone staring at him and after Paul and his prisoner. Choosing someone in a lab coat at random, he pointed. “You! What ‘others’ are there?” The hapless victim stammered out that there apparently had been viable specimens taken when Bing’s lab was seized. The current clone project was an attempt to recreate Bing’s results.

A lump of lead began to form in Tord’s stomach. The DNA Bing’d had access to when he was active… That’d have been… The lead sunk solidly in his gut. “Patryck?” Only years of rigid control kept his voice from shaking. “When the doctor gets here, have them move Paultoryck to our guest quarters, under guard.”

“What are you going to do, sir?”

“I’m going to see about these others, and then I have a phone call to make.”

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was Tord Adopts Everyone


End file.
